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All 03.3 - Victor's Interview
“You’re all dismissed. Except you; you’re fired. And you; come with me,” Mr. Percival Webber pointed at the targets of his blunt commands as he spoke, then strode purposefully to the door. His audience still sat, digesting the information they had been given in the five-minute meeting that had just ended. Victor blinked a few times, then stood up, following as he had been instructed. Caitlyn and Lucca followed quickly behind, and the three walked out of the room, across the hall and into another, smaller conference room where Mr. Webber had entered. He glanced towards the two younger investigators and waved them out, “I didn’t ask for you, just him. Wait in the hall and close the door.” With a hint of indignation, they complied, leaving their new teammate alone with the owner of CSIS. Mr. Webber wasted no time or pleasantries, “You. Your name?” Victor twitched slightly at the mouth; this was a less than pleasant subject, and he was beginning to consider the merits of wigs and eye patches. When he didn’t reply right away, Mr. Webber pushed, “I have a meeting in 8 minutes, don’t waste what little time I have.” “...Victor,” he replied, gritting his teeth a little. “Hmm,” Mr. Webber said quickly, neither surprised nor convinced. “He’s dead, you know that?” “Apparently,” Victor returned the blunt demeanor of the younger man. “So why are you impersonating him?” “I can’t say that I am.” “Oh. So you’re his missing twin then? Magic clone or something?” Victor tried to keep himself from becoming too sharp as he replied, “I don’t know. I have amnesia. I remember nothing, and you can go ask the Arlington police to corroborate. I look like Victor Erzebet, and no one has given me a particularly good alternative. That’s all.” Percival's features somehow took on an even more serious tone as he looked at him with great scrutiny for a few silent seconds. Finally, he said, “You know that Bethany Erzebet is dead, yes?” Victor blinked at the sudden shift of conversational target, but replied, “Yes.” “Do you know how?” “Yes.” “And you, a man who has been dead for months, conveniently show up immediately following that.” He inclined his head and raised his eyebrow slightly. “This is certainly a story, provided that you are in fact more than a very good liar. I’ll have to put that to the test.” Victor looked confused, “What?” “Oh, hmpht, yes,” Percival said with a snort of laughter, “You have amnesia.” He held out his hand, “Percival Webber, investigative reporter.” Victor looked blankly as he processed the meaning of that statement for a second. With a sigh, he took the proffered hand and shook it, his face now a picture of weary resignation. Taking his hand back, Mr. Webber smiled and reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, “Unfortunately, I can’t cancel my business today, but…” he paused as he flipped through the small notebook he had pulled out, “I have some free time on the first, at 1. Are you staying in Kalleandar, or…” “No, no I’m living in Arlington,” Victor said, his tone becoming sarcastically polite. “Well, then, I’ll go there,” Mr. Webber said as he scribbled a note with a pen that seemed to come from nowhere. Replacing the book, he produced a small card from another pocket and wrote something on it as well. “Meet me here at 1:10 on the first. It’s one of the better restaurants I’ve found in the city, if a bit under appreciated,” he said as he passed over the card. Glancing at the address and time that had been written down, Victor ventured, “Out of curiosity, if I didn’t arrive…?” He let the question hang. “Oh, well, that would be rather unfortunate," Mr. Webber's tone mirrored the saccharine politeness of Victor's. "I’d hate to have my time wasted like that, after coming all that way. Not to mention that its just downright shameful, really, to stand someone up. And if I need to put a final point on it, I'll say for the record that I'm just as willing to take back doors as front to get to the bottom of stories.” Victor smiled sardonically, “So, my options are ‘lunch’ or ‘be followed around and have my belongings rifled through’.” Mr. Webber returned the smile, “Yes, since we're being so very direct.” Victor held up the card, “1:10 then.” “1:10. I look forward to it.” “I’ll try not to disappoint.” With that last comment, Victor bowed his head and turned to leave. Mr. Webber glanced at his watch and hurried out behind him. ---- Victor glanced down at his pocketwatch. 1:12. He was glad to have the watch, despite it probably being a poor use of his very thin money. His pay cheque from yesterday had given him enough for rent though, and considering his “Spoon of Infinite and Disappointing Oatmeal”, he wouldn't starve, so he really had no motivation to save. Save for what? Why bother? He considered these things idly as he waited. At precisely 1:15, Mr. Webber appeared. Victor stood and greeted him silently with a half-smile and a nod, which the reporter returned. The two sat down at their small table in the quiet restaurant. A waiter appeared, and asked, “Usual, sir?” towards the newcomer. Mr. Webber looked thoughtful for a half-second then nodded. The waiter walked off without a second glance, prompting a raised eyebrow from Victor. “Don’t mind him. My ‘usual’ includes ordering for my guests,” Percival explained. “I know the chef and owner well; you’re in good hands.” Victor just gave his rather customary look of wry submission. “Now, brass tacks,” he continued. He pulled a small notebook from his pocket and produced a pen from the aether, “Do you mind much if I take notes?” “No, not particularly.” “Good. You’ll barely notice, I promise,” he set the book open and placed it on the table, pen poised. His eyes gave it little notice however, and kept firm contact on Victor. “It’s just good practice, I find.” “I’m sure,” Victor replied, as the waiter returned with a bottle of wine and glasses. As the waiter poured, Percival continued, “Now, how would you like this conducted? Some people prefer to just speak what comes to them, others like the questioning method.” His eyes were level, pointedly assertive without being threatening: a professional interrogator. The pen lay in wait, ready to begin. Victor returned his gaze; his was one of patient weariness, hinting at an air of disdain. “You’re the one who asked me here. Personally, I find talking about this subject trying and fruitless. But,” he lifted his glass without looking away, “here we are. Ask away, I won’t lie.” He sipped the wine, “Just don’t expect me to volunteer information.” His voice had a vague bitterness creeping in, making his tone almost sarcastic. Mr. Webber nodded seriously at this, his pen twitching to life at last, scrawling shorthand notes as of its own accord, as the man gave no indication of looking at the paper. He considered the other man for a moment, looking at him gravely, before beginning. “You’re not an impostor, and you aren’t altering your appearance,” he said matter of factly. Victor neither questioned nor denied this statement, so he continued, “You look identical to Victor Erzebet. You have no memory, though. What’s your earliest memory?” Victor closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. “I remember nothing before the basement room. I was kept in a basement room for months, I assume. I remember that, and nothing else.” “No family, no childhood?” “No,” he said firmly, looking back to his interviewer. “ I have knowledge, obviously. I remember how to do things, say things, but no memory of learning how. I can read and write, perform equations, but I can’t remember any schooling. I know how to wield a sword, a bow, a shield, but I can’t recall any sort of training. I can play the violin, but I don’t know where I’ve heard the songs before. I don’t know my name, and nothing sounds any more familiar than anything else.” Mr. Webber nodded, his gaze never leaving and his pen never stopping. His left hand occasionally brought his glass to his lips, giving the overall impression that his hands and eyes were all working quite independently of each other, so trained they were in their roles. “So start with what you do remember, then. The basement, describe it.” “Horrid. Small. It was a cell, nothing more.” “Who kept you there?” “Bethany Erzebet.” “The wife of Victor Erzebet.” “Yes.” “Did she refer to you as Victor, her husband?” “...Occasionally. Her moods were volatile, and her opinion of the truth changed daily.” “What did she claim was the truth?” Victor fiddled with the base of his glass. “Many things. Foolish things. Dark things. She was quite insane,” he replied, a slight pause between each of his statements. It seemed there was more to it, but Victor offered nothing. Mr. Webber considered this, tapped his pen tip twice, then started a different tack, “She was pronounced dead, a week and a half ago. What do you know about that?” His tone became matter-of-fact again, “A week and a half ago while on a job, two of your employees entered Lady Erzebet’s mansion and discovered the basement cell. The lady discovered their trespass, responded with deadly force and was met in kind. She was overpowered, and died from the wounds sustained. It was ruled self-defense in the case of the CSIS agent.” “What were your feelings upon learning this?” Without hesitation, he replied, “Satisfaction, I suppose. Some could say ‘relief’, but not the sort that comes from the removal of fear. Rather, the kind of contentment felt when something out of place is rightfully corrected.” Mr. Webber’s gaze hinted at confusion at this, so Victor added, “There are people that the world is a better place without. There is no sorrow in their passing, and no shame on those who are called to destroy them. She was a detriment to the world, and her demise has only improved the world as a whole.” Percival took a sip of wine and contemplated that statement. “That’s a harsh opinion,” he offered finally. Copying the motions of the other, Victor replied simply, “Indeed,” before taking a drink. “You mentioned the basement cell twice. Are you referring to the same place?” “Yes.” “Were you there when the agents were assaulted by Lady Erzebet?” “Yes.” “So you watched the fight?” “No.” “Why?” “The basement contains two rooms; I was bound in the second while they fought in the first. There was no way to see between the two. I heard the fight, but saw nothing of it.” “I assume then, that you were discovered after the fight?” “Yes.” “You were released by the CSIS agents...Desire and Wakiya?” “Yes.” “You weren’t mentioned in their report though. Was that at your request?” “Yes.” “Why?” “For the simple reason that I had been kept in a small room for months. I had a chance at freedom, and at that moment, I assumed that if the police knew about me, I would be held for questioning regarding the events, suspicion regarding Lady Erzebet’s crimes, and an inquest into my identity, any of which could take days. I wanted nothing to do with any of it, so I asked them to refrain from mentioning me.” “So, you say you want anonymity, but you then use the name of a dead noble and don’t try to hide the fact that you look just like him. And you take on a service job affiliated with the police within 24 hours, if I’m not mistaken.” Percival gave a somewhat wry look, “Seems counterproductive.” “...I am an awful liar,” Victor said with a dismissive gesture, breaking eye contact for the second time as he glanced away. Still with a slight grin, Percival replied, “Yes, you’re either painfully honest or an intriguing liar, I will give you that.” Taking a drink, he continued, “I will continue to take advantage of it. You mentioned Lady Erzebet’s ‘crimes’, despite being locked in a basement for the entirety of your memory. Tell me everything you know of the lady and her actions.” With a sigh and an air of weariness, Victor began to relate what brief portion of his life he could recall. ---- “Frankly, it seemed like the best option, considering my lack of money. What other place would hire a nameless man on the spot with no proper skills and no background check?” Mr. Webber chuckled, “A lot of people think my hiring policies are a terrible idea, and yes, we do end up taking some useless people, but I find the benefits outweigh the occasional poor employee.” “And what, dare I ask, are the benefits?” Victor asked, leaning back in his chair, his meal finished. Mr. Webber smiled knowingly; this wasn’t the first time he had answered this question, and wouldn't be the last. “Let me ask you: do you believe there are different sorts of people in this world?” “Of course; in what fashion?” “Several, really. You can put it in many terms, but at the heart of it: there are people in this world with a certain quality about them, that leads them to being elevated, somewhat, above other men. Not a tangible quality, like money, influence, or magic, though most or all of them do end up possessing those as an aftereffect. Some people, for whatever reason, have the ability to change the status quo.” “A quality of ambition, then?” “Not quite. Some are ambitious, adventurous, curious, some aren’t. Some just go about their lives and find that they’re just suddenly part of world-changing events, and when they're done and the world is altered, they go on about their way. There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason behind who does and doesn't have this quality; some people are just born to be heroes, conquerors, liberators, legends. Are you religious?” “Hmm," Victor considered this question briefly before replying, "I suppose some would call my particular views sacrilegious, but yes, for the sake of argument.” “Interesting. At any rate, whether you choose to attribute it to particular gods or the world itself, I think there’s a fate involved. I don't believe in coincidences, incidentally. Now these people, I tend to call them heroic people, though I'm aware it's a less than adequate term, since not all of them are of equal measure, and hardly a quarter of them could be considered heroic. A forefather of mine called them 'adventurers', but that's really just as misleading. At any rate, they all tend to be...eclectic. I don’t know if you know much history, but if you read enough, you find a definite pattern of interesting personalities. Self-taught casters. Skilled warriors who don't fit into armies. Travelers with wanderlust. Average people who face sudden trauma. Thieves, orphans, survivors, outcasts, all sorts of people that just don’t quite blend into society. Now, back to the original point. CSIS, as I run it now, used to be a side venture: a service for locals to ask for personal assistance from passers-by. A nice little system for heroic people to help average men with above-average problems. It attracted lots of them, and over the years they helped thousands of otherwise helpless people. Now, as the country changed over the years, after the revolution particularly, the government became more orderly, and we got more laws and more people to enforce those laws. Again, I assume you know some history. As this happened, it became more and more difficult for heroic people to help in their full capacity. Is it illegal for a bird to trespass on property? No, but what if it's a human that's turned into a bird? What if it's a bird that's empathically bonded with a human? What if it's a completely normal bird, but a mage has the ability to read the bird's mind? You see the number of legal problems that come up, and it was easier just to outlaw everything strange than it was to deal with the issues individually. But this meant that there was no heroic help for people succumbing to unusual issues; maybe that's another trick of fate, that there will always be problems that can only be solved by heroic people. So, my grandfather stepped in and, with help from my family's law firm and some negotiations with the police, made the little side service into its own full company: CSIS. A lawful, legal company that deals with all of the issues that average men worry about, and lets heroic people do all the strange, terrifying, confusing, stupid, nauseating and otherwise status-quo-shattering acts that let them help people, in the course of them changing the world." Victor commented, "This seems to be a...convoluted business model." “Oh yes, it certainly seems that way, but CSIS remains one of my family’s more profitable ventures. It is a consistent fact that the people I hire are better equipped, more efficient and more capable at every aspect of investigation and security than the police, excluding pomp and circumstance, and in some cases language skills. They bring in far more commission money then they know, and provide an endless stream of news and information. My family has been profiting off of heroes for generations, and it is a tradition I am proud to carry on. On that note, I am extremely excited for your upcoming reports.” “Me particularly?” “Well, you and your team. A druid and a bard, both sorts of people highly likely to be heroes, and now you, wrapped up in your mysterious and bloody story as you are. Within two weeks, your team stopped a mass murderer, discovered a construct that might be alive, and found messages from the Riptide Gang that imply that not only is a convicted criminal is affiliated with them, but gave forewarning of a potential jailbreak. If that’s not evidence of fate’s interest in you, then I have no idea what is. I’m positively giddy over the thought of the articles I’m going to get from you three.” “Well then," with only a slight eye-roll, "here’s to gripping stories and good newspaper sales,” Victor said, raising his glass. “Here here,” Mr. Webber toasted, and the two finished their drinks. “Well, I had better be going if I’m to remain on schedule,” he said, his pen and notebook disappearing into his jacket. “This was an interesting interview, I will give you that. I’ll wait to publish it until after the police have decided what to do with you, though. They get somewhat irate if I publish before they get their paperwork complete.” “Undoubtedly,” Victor said. He stood as Percival did, and added, “You mentioned a jailbreak…” “Ugh,” Percival gave a snort of derision, “well, the appropriate officials were informed, but they were adamant that all necessary precautions had already been taken with Dr. Cohen. You’ll all be informed when he’s loose again, don’t worry.” “You seem rather certain in his escape.” “Well, what do you expect? If you get a note saying that someone is going to try steal something, and you don't update your security any, you shouldn't be surprised when it's stolen. But if breaks out, that's not my concern; I don’t change fate, I direct the ones who do. Then I write it down, win awards and get more money than I know what to do with. I'm publishing the information about the notes today, but I'll probably pre-write the article about his escape now. Get a real patronizing undertone going. At any rate,” he held out his hand, “thank you for your story, despite obviously not telling all of it.” Victor shook his hand, “Thank you for lunch, and for having the good sense not to pry further.” “All good things take a certain amount of time. I’ll get the rest of it when it’s ready. Good day, Mr. Erzebet.” “And you, Mr. Webber.” “You can call me Pierce,” he added over his shoulder as he walked out, passing a cheque to the waiter on his way. Category:Advent of the All